


'cause all i need is the love you breathe

by owilde



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, I mean... just a little, Jealousy, M/M, Pet Names, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: The mentions of Louis get more abundant, before eventually there’s a day where he’s written,Goddammit, I like him, don’t I?Aasim smiles wryly at the words.





	'cause all i need is the love you breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Ace for encouraging me to write this - these idiots need more love. And fics. Definitely more fics.
> 
> Title taken from MIKA's "Underwater"

Aasim’s sort of always known. Or at least he can’t ever remember there being a question about it. There are a few diary entries, from early on – from when he had to keep one, as mandated by the school counselor – that are still hesitant and curious. It makes him smile to look at them now. How young he was, how much he didn’t know. How much has happened since then.

But there’s no question about the fact that his romantic feelings are fluid, now. He thinks there might’ve been labels – words to stack on to yourself, like ID patches – but they’re forgotten now, most of them, or at least of little use. Aasim doesn’t need a word to know what he is, who he is.

He’s been watching Louis since what feels like forever. Louis has always been there, hovering in his peripheral, smiling and joking and laying a casual hand on a shoulder. He’s easy with attention, has never minded being the class clown and doesn’t mind being one now, for their group of misfits. He’s funny, or thinks he is, and he has a good heart.

And Aasim likes him. That one he hasn’t always been self-aware about. He’d chalked his thoughts up to admiration, a want to feel as at ease as Louis does, to not seem bothered by much at all. Aasim’s always been wound too tight, and it’s only gotten worse since the world ended. Louis was never that.

His early journal entries are laughably obvious to him now, but they weren’t always. _Today, Louis and Minerva held a band night. With one piano, and one singer. It’s ridiculous. He sang some. Louis does have a nice voice, I haven’t really noticed that before…_

Aasim flips through more pages, and each time he sees Minnie and Sophie’s names they jump up, like they’ve been written with bolder ink and underlined. He can’t pretend he’s as devastated as some people were – but they were his friends. A part of the group. He misses what they used to have.

There’s a day where he’s only written, “Fuck everything”, and after that he doesn’t mention either of the them for several pages, before he finally explains what happens in short, monosyllabic sentences. Aasim brushes past the page, not willing to relive the day in his mind again.

The mentions of Louis get more abundant, before eventually there’s a day where he’s written, _Goddammit, I like him, don’t I?_

Aasim smiles wryly at the words. They’re written in a rush, out of fear of someone seeing, probably – the dot of the question mark has spread into an angry line. He reads further, into his own analysis of himself and his feelings, and his smile widens.

It would be cute, if it weren’t him. Aasim reaches the last written page, where he’s remarked about the explosion they heard, and the smoke – and now he clicks his pen open and continues where he left off.

Every now and again, his eyes drift over to the new girl. She’s trailing around with the kid in tow, introducing herself to everyone. Aasim’s lips purse slightly at the memory of Louis’ excitement over her, his obvious interest.

It’s not her fault Aasim has a thing for Louis, and it’s not her fault either that Louis clearly has a thing for her. He forces himself to keep writing, sticking to facts – she’s good on her feet. Clearly experienced. She can handle herself. She’d make an excellent hunter.

 _I think Louis likes her_ , he finds himself chronicling. _And Violet. I haven’t seen her like that before – actually making an effort to talk to someone. Flirting, I guess. An odd thing to witness. I’ll need to–_

“Hello?”

Aasim looks up, flipping the journal shut. The new girl is looking at him, the kid next to her. They’re holding hands, and Aasim feels an odd, out of place swell of pity. She’s not his parent. Does he even remember who is?

“Oh,” he says. “Hey. Clementine, right?”

“Yeah.” She smiles; it makes her look softer. “This is AJ,” she adds, nodding towards the kid. “And you’re Aasim?”

He nods in confirmation, his fingers absently tracing the patterns on top of the journal. AJ notices, and looks at the book and then at him, shifting closer to Clementine. “What are you doing?”

There’s nothing accusatory in his tone, and his eyes show only curiosity. Aasim thinks he’s gotten too used to defending himself. He flips the book open at a random page, hoping and praying AJ can’t read well enough to understand upside down text in his mediocre handwriting. “It’s a journal,” he explains. “I write down everything that happens around here. Your arrival is the first exciting thing to happen in a while.”

Clementine lifts a brow. “So… like a diary?”

Aasim lets out a laugh. “More like a history book,” he says, but he’s lying. No historian will give a shit about the exact color of Louis’ eyes, even though they should. “I write so that if someday all of this gets fixed, well… they’ll know what happened. First hand account, and all that.”

Because people in the future need to know about them. Or at least, they need to know about Louis. They need to know it was possible to lose everything, and remain positive, remain whatever Louis is – and that it was possible, still, for someone to fall in love with a person like that.

“That’s cool,” Clementine says. She eyes the pages, and if she can make out anything incriminating there, she doesn’t say. “You write anything about us?”

It’s asked in a teasing tone, and Aasim knows she’s not really looking for a serious answer, but he gives one regardless. “Yeah, some things.” He eyes AJ. “Do you want to try writing?”

His eyes light up, and he shoots Clementine a questioning glance, which she returns with a nod. “I don’t know how to write, though,” he says, and Aasim’s heart breaks just a little for this boy, who’ll never know any better than what there is now.

He shifts to allow AJ to sit next to him, and places the book in his lap on an empty spread of pages. “You hold the pen like this,” he says, and demonstrates, making sure AJ is looking. “See? With your fingers placed like this. And then you make letters, like for example, A and J.” He draws the looping alphabets next to each other. “And now they spell out your name.”

AJ looks amazed. He takes the pen when Aasim offers it, and they spend a few seconds trying to place his fingers right around it. He eventually gets it, and when he writes his own name in blocky, shaky letters, Aasim thinks there might still be hope for him. For all of them.

“That’s pretty good,” he says. “Maybe you’ll become a writer, too.”

AJ beams at him, and hands the pen and journal back. Clementine shoots him a grateful look, which seems to say, _you didn’t have to_. Aasim shrugs slightly, and waves them goodbye as they continue on with their tour around the grounds.

 _Clementine’s alright_ , he writes. _And the kid, AJ. I think we’ll be alright._

During dinner, he can see the deck of cards peeking from Louis’ pocket, and knows they’ll be playing. In a similar vein, he knows what Louis will be asking, and thinks he’s not mentally strong enough to stay around for that.

He doesn’t mind the flirting. Louis isn’t his to own – Louis isn’t anyone’s. He can do whatever he wants, and flirt with whoever he wants to flirt with, and it’s not really any of Aasim’s business. And yet, knowing this doesn’t help with the guilt churning in his stomach whenever he feels a flash of jealousy spark through him.

He finds himself wandering to the piano room after dinner. From there, he can hear them talking outside, but he can’t decipher the words. He doesn’t want to. Aasim sits down on the chair and sighs, staring at the keys of the piano until the sight of them becomes too much and he turns around instead.

Louis is everywhere in this room. The faded and torn drawings on the wall, the books he’d selected to be here, a picture of his first piano lesson that someone had bothered to take, develop and frame. Aasim stands up and walks over to where it is, hiding in the corner of a shelf. The glass has cracked and the picture is yellow and faded, but it’s still the same Louis, smiling brightly at the camera.

They can’t take pictures, anymore. No one is going to know what any of them looked like. Tenn draws, but Tenn is young. An odd emotion catches Aasim off guard as he stares at the picture of Louis, some misplaced nostalgia and sorrow that seems to grab him by the chest and squeeze tight.

He wants for everyone to know. Who they were, what they did. What happened to them. He wants for everyone to know that Louis played the piano, that Tenn still draws – that life didn’t just end.

The door behind him creaks open. Aasim turns around to see Louis slip inside, a playful smile on his face. It dims when he notices Aasim’s expression, so he forces himself to smile back, because Louis needs to keep smiling.

“Hey,” Louis says, and soon he’s standing before him, slightly taller as always. “Why are you here? I thought you’d be in our room.”

Aasim doesn’t know how to explain that he missed Louis, when Louis is standing right in front of him and always seems to be around, so he says the first thing that pops into his mind, which is, “I wanted to borrow a book.”

Louis quirks a brow. “A book?” His eyes drift past Aasim, and to the shelf where his picture is, still in its cracked frame. He seems to not make the connection. “About music theory?”

“Yes,” Aasim lies. “Music theory.”

Louis laughs. “Okay, Mister Genius – you know you don’t have to be an expert in _everything_ , right?”

Aasim doesn’t think he’s an expert in much at all, but it warms his heart to hear that Louis seems to think so. He steps away from the shelf, and away from Louis, because sometimes it all just seems too much for him. “I know,” he says, smiling. “But hey, maybe you can teach me.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but it seems more fond than anything. “Yeah, that’d be a sight.” He pauses, and this time his smile really does dim. Aasim’s stomach flips. “You weren’t going to read about music theory,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Aasim looks away and at the floor. “No.”

“So, what…”

“I just–” Aasim cuts himself off. He’s not angry, not at Louis or Clementine – maybe at himself. He thinks maybe he should just tell. If Louis knows, and says, like he will, that he doesn’t feel the same, then Aasim can stop beating himself up over it and Louis can go back to flirting with Clementine, and everything can be _fine_. “I thought you’d want to show your room to Clementine, or something, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Louis steps closer. Aasim can see his shoes. “ _Our_ room,” he corrects. “And why would I bring Clem over?”

“Because,” Aasim starts, and furiously thinks, _isn’t it obvious?_ “Because you like her, right?”

“’Sim,” Louis says. Aasim looks up, brows furrowed. Louis looks confused. “I don’t like Clem,” he says. “I mean, I _like_ her, she’s cool as hell, but I don’t… not in the way you think I do.”

Aasim’s frown disappears. He thinks back on all the signs, and finds himself baffled even further. “Yeah, you do,” he argues. “You were flirting.”

Louis huffs a laugh. “I wasn’t. Do you even know what my flirting looks like?”

Aasim blinks. Louis looks too nice in the dim light, one corner of his mouth dragging into a smile. “I guess you’re implying I don’t.”

“If you knew,” Louis says quietly, “you’d know I’ve been trying to flirt with you for months, now.”

The world stops spinning for a while. Aasim’s pretty sure his breath hitches, and none of life makes sense for a second or two – because what _does_ Louis’ flirting then look like, it sure as hell hasn’t been obvious to _him_ , and Aasim isn’t that oblivious – or is he? – but then Louis steps closer, and all his thoughts halt into an abrupt stop.

“Louis,” he starts, and his voice very definitively isn’t shaking. “What are you trying to say?”

“Say?” Louis asks. “That I like you? That I’ve liked you for, I don’t know – too long to count at this point, and weeks don’t make sense anyway. I’m taking a leap of faith in saying you maybe feel the same way?”

“That maybe–” Aasim chokes on his words, in a rush to say all the million things in his mind right now. “Uh, yeah, maybe isn’t the right word here, Lou – I – look, I’ve been writing about you in my journal for _years_ –”

Louis cuts him off with a kiss. Aasim’s hands end up around his shoulders as he presses closer, leaning into the sudden contact, and his mind, usually so preoccupied, feels delightfully empty now. All he can think is _Louis_ , and then, _warm, nice, home._

They break off, but don’t move far. Aasim swallows air, his eyes somewhere around Louis’ lips, and makes himself look up into his eyes. They’re crinkled in a soft smile, and it’s an odd feeling – to know that Aasim made that look happen.

“Years?” Louis asks, probably aiming for casual, but he sounds a little breathless.

“Yes.” Aasim doesn’t see a point in retracting his words. “I just didn’t think anything would come of it.”

Louis laughs, but it isn’t mocking, not at all. “And here I’ve been composing songs for you in my free time,” he says, casually, like it doesn’t stop Aasim’s heart for a second.

“Songs?” He asks, dryly. “Like, actual songs?”

Louis moves away, towards the piano. “Yeah, I can show you–”

“No,” Aasim interjects, and then amends, “I mean, people are sleeping. You can… show me your dumb songs tomorrow, if you want to.” Except he doesn’t think they’re dumb, and if Louis is going to play him a fucking song – a song composed _for him –_ he’s pretty sure he’ll never recover from the strain on his heart.

The grin on Louis’ face turns wider, as if he somehow _knows_ what Aasim’s thinking. “Tomorrow,” he says, and it sounds like a promise. His face lights up further, as if a thought has popped into his mind. “Does this mean I get to call you pet names?”

Aasim, to his horror, blushes. “No,” he says, emphatically, and starts making his way towards the door. “It absolutely does not.”

“Really?” Louis calls out, trailing behind him. “Babe? Honey? Sweet light of my life?”

“Shut up,” Aasim mutters. His face feels like it’s burning. “Idiot.”

“Aw, _babe_ , you know I love it when you call me that.”

Aasim smiles against his better judgement, hiding it by looking at the floor. They’re making their way over to their room – Aasim hopes they won’t run into anyone on the way. “I’ll allow one,” he decides, because he can’t deny the way his heart keeps flipping at the nicknames. “ _One_.”

“Ah, but there’s a loophole,” Louis says lightly. “I can change it depending on the day.”

Aasim knows he could argue his logic – and would, if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t really want to. All he wants, right now, is to kiss Louis again, and maybe hold his hand, and fall asleep, pretending that everything is alright. So he says, “Fine,” and as they reach their room and step inside, Louis counters it with, “Excellent, sweetheart”, and if Aasim turns around to press Louis against the door to kiss him, to shut him up, then it’s nobody’s business but theirs. 


End file.
